kind of deal?’
The wind shifted around and Sten stepped back. ‘Whoo, tha’s some smell.’
Fisk grunted.
‘You get lotsa stuff left over, eh?’
‘Two, three times a season. Why?’
Pushing his hair back, Sten nodded as if Fisk’s answer had confirmed a suspicion. ‘I might like t’buy some, tha’s why. If th’price’s right.’
Fisk pocketed his hands and shook his head. ‘Buy it? What in hell for?’
‘I got three dogs. Dog food’s ’spensive.’
‘I doubt they’d eat it,’ Fisk said. ‘Maybe just roll in it, or something.’
‘I gotta grinder in the g’rage. I’d mix it up with reg’lar stuff.’
Fisk grunted again. ‘It might do. Give me your phone number. I’ll let you know when I get some fresh stuff.’ He turned and headed towards the porch. ‘Thing is, you don’t want it to go high. Might sicken your dogs.’
Sten laughed, as if at some private joke. ‘No problem there. Got lotsa jars. Fulla jam now, but I can empty ’em out.’
Fisk walked past him. ‘I’ll get a pen and paper.’
‘Wait!’
Stopping, Fisk turned. ‘What?’
‘Well, we ain’t ’greed on th’price, eh?’
‘Jesus Christ, Sten.’ Fisk shook his head. ‘I’m not asking a price for something I’d just burn anyway. You just come and pick it up when I call you. Hell, saves me the trouble.’
Sten blinked, then he nodded. ‘You call and I’ll come right over.’
Fisk turned back to the house. ‘I’ll get a pen and paper.’
‘Right.’
After he’d gotten Sten’s phone number and the man had driven away, Fisk made some coffee and retired to his rocking chair on the porch to await sunset.
‘Bloody drunk,’ he muttered. That’s what happens when you don’t work. He remembered hearing some story about Sten having an accident on the job – was working for the railroad or something. Living the last ten years on an injury compensation cheque. The man was probably a drunk even back then, and that was what caused the accident. ‘Once a drunk, always a drunk.’
He leaned back in his chair, watching the shadows crawl towards him. ‘All you need is a purpose. That’s all you need.’
VIII
The city falling behind me, I edged forward in my seat, feeling the anticipation growing inside. The day was over, but with the coming of dusk a new day would begin. And there’d be chill winds to sweep away the city’s residue from my clothes, from my thoughts. And there’d be the fields of sweet mud and the bounty carried in the swirling currents of the brown river.
I saw them waiting there on the side of the highway when we were still a quarter-mile distant. I pulled the cord, stepped out into the aisle. As I made my way to the front, I continued watching them through the windshield. Lynk still had his stick. He stood on the ditch’s other side, tossing stones into the air and taking wild swings. Carl stood next to Roland, who faced the bus.
With a hissing of air-brakes, we came to a stop and the driver opened the door. Grinning, I descended.
Roland nodded at the books under my arm. ‘Homework, eh?’
‘Yeah, my teacher’s a real bitch.’
Carl following, we jumped the water-filled ditch and joined Lynk. He swung his improvised bat, striking a stone, and the flat cracking sound was echoed a second later as the stone struck a wooden sign a few yards away. The sign stood at the corner point of two fence lines, its red-painted words faded to a dull pink.
Maypole Mink Farm Half-Mile.
On the sign a mink had been painted, running, its brown coat chipped and faded.
Lynk gave me a tight smile and said, ‘I hit that fuckin’ mink five fuckin’ times in a row!’
‘You guys play baseball?’ I asked Roland.
‘Of course!’ Lynk snapped. ‘Can’t ya see?’
Roland nodded.
‘I’m first base on my school team,’ I said. ‘I got a Cooper glove.’
‘Fuck that,’ Lynk said. ‘We play 500. None of that fuckin’ team shit. Playing first base is piss-ass!’
I laughed.
‘Let’s
The wind shifted around and Sten stepped back. ‘Whoo, tha’s some smell.’
Fisk grunted.
‘You get lotsa stuff left over, eh?’
‘Two, three times a season. Why?’
Pushing his hair back, Sten nodded as if Fisk’s answer had confirmed a suspicion. ‘I might like t’buy some, tha’s why. If th’price’s right.’
Fisk pocketed his hands and shook his head. ‘Buy it? What in hell for?’
‘I got three dogs. Dog food’s ’spensive.’
‘I doubt they’d eat it,’ Fisk said. ‘Maybe just roll in it, or something.’
‘I gotta grinder in the g’rage. I’d mix it up with reg’lar stuff.’
Fisk grunted again. ‘It might do. Give me your phone number. I’ll let you know when I get some fresh stuff.’ He turned and headed towards the porch. ‘Thing is, you don’t want it to go high. Might sicken your dogs.’
Sten laughed, as if at some private joke. ‘No problem there. Got lotsa jars. Fulla jam now, but I can empty ’em out.’
Fisk walked past him. ‘I’ll get a pen and paper.’
‘Wait!’
Stopping, Fisk turned. ‘What?’
‘Well, we ain’t ’greed on th’price, eh?’
‘Jesus Christ, Sten.’ Fisk shook his head. ‘I’m not asking a price for something I’d just burn anyway. You just come and pick it up when I call you. Hell, saves me the trouble.’
Sten blinked, then he nodded. ‘You call and I’ll come right over.’
Fisk turned back to the house. ‘I’ll get a pen and paper.’
‘Right.’
After he’d gotten Sten’s phone number and the man had driven away, Fisk made some coffee and retired to his rocking chair on the porch to await sunset.
‘Bloody drunk,’ he muttered. That’s what happens when you don’t work. He remembered hearing some story about Sten having an accident on the job – was working for the railroad or something. Living the last ten years on an injury compensation cheque. The man was probably a drunk even back then, and that was what caused the accident. ‘Once a drunk, always a drunk.’
He leaned back in his chair, watching the shadows crawl towards him. ‘All you need is a purpose. That’s all you need.’
VIII
The city falling behind me, I edged forward in my seat, feeling the anticipation growing inside. The day was over, but with the coming of dusk a new day would begin. And there’d be chill winds to sweep away the city’s residue from my clothes, from my thoughts. And there’d be the fields of sweet mud and the bounty carried in the swirling currents of the brown river.
I saw them waiting there on the side of the highway when we were still a quarter-mile distant. I pulled the cord, stepped out into the aisle. As I made my way to the front, I continued watching them through the windshield. Lynk still had his stick. He stood on the ditch’s other side, tossing stones into the air and taking wild swings. Carl stood next to Roland, who faced the bus.
With a hissing of air-brakes, we came to a stop and the driver opened the door. Grinning, I descended.
Roland nodded at the books under my arm. ‘Homework, eh?’
‘Yeah, my teacher’s a real bitch.’
Carl following, we jumped the water-filled ditch and joined Lynk. He swung his improvised bat, striking a stone, and the flat cracking sound was echoed a second later as the stone struck a wooden sign a few yards away. The sign stood at the corner point of two fence lines, its red-painted words faded to a dull pink.
Maypole Mink Farm Half-Mile.
On the sign a mink had been painted, running, its brown coat chipped and faded.
Lynk gave me a tight smile and said, ‘I hit that fuckin’ mink five fuckin’ times in a row!’
‘You guys play baseball?’ I asked Roland.
‘Of course!’ Lynk snapped. ‘Can’t ya see?’
Roland nodded.
‘I’m first base on my school team,’ I said. ‘I got a Cooper glove.’
‘Fuck that,’ Lynk said. ‘We play 500. None of that fuckin’ team shit. Playing first base is piss-ass!’
I laughed.
‘Let’s
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